Page 83 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

Dockside Draughts

More than half the suggestions sound something like this, and none of them feel quite right to us. While we appreciate the sentiments and the effort people put in, we also agree a lot of the ideas are either too cute and rhymey, or flat-out inaccurate.

For one thing, there isn’t much of a tide on our beach. And can a lake be described as nautical? Does the dock qualify as a marina? Hudson and I say no to these things without even bothering to look up the answers. We also decide Reflections Rendezvous sounds too much like a combination of a funeral parlor and dating site.

“What does a sailfish even look like?” I ask, while Hudson dumps more logs on the fire. “Does it have fins? Is it a boat accessory?”

“I have no idea.” Hudson chuckles, poking at the wood. The sound of his laughter is even brighter than the flame. “But I’m pretty sure we don’t have any in Abie Lake.”

Ultimately, we eliminate the names that don’t work at all, then narrow the remaining choices down to a short list of our favorites to send to the Johnsons.

In the meantime, I keep catching Hudson gazing at me in the firelight. At each glance, he quickly averts his eyes, and I can’t get a handle on what’s going on in that brain of his. We should probably have a conversation about this, but I’m afraid to ask what’s on his mind. I’m also afraid to share what I’ve been thinking, too.

Like … I’m curious about how his mom’s leaving affected his relationships. I honestly know nothing about whether Hudson’s ever gotten serious with anyone before. Has he ever been in love? I have no idea. But I told him I’ve always kept a certain distance between me and the men I’ve dated, and he knows exactly why.

What he doesn’t know is that—thanks to him—my heart’s beginning to open up in ways I was completely unprepared for. I’ve never felt truly safe with any man before—not counting my dad, my brother, and cousins, of course. But with everyone else, I’ve guarded myself fiercely—not just my body, but also my emotions. So being vulnerable in front of Hudson, trusting him with pieces of my soul, is an entirely new experience for me.

Scary. Thrilling. Warm.

By the time the third round of firewood has turned to ash, my insides are fluttering like hummingbird wings. Rapid and almost invisible. Then the fluttering turns to a froth, and I feel dizzy. Maybe even a little sick with the nerves bubbling up. Or that could just be the clam chowder.

Still, something’s shifted between us today, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Actually, there were a couple of shifts. First at the dunk tank. Then up in his bedroom. And after, when we found out I’m stuck here tonight.

Normally, I would’ve been freaked out by the potential closeness and the intimacy. But somehow, I trust Hudson. I have faith in his respect for me and in his intentions. I’m sure he wouldn’t ever take advantage. In fact, I’m probably closer to hurting him than he’d ever be to hurting me.

“I think we’re done for the night,” Hudson says. He uses the poker to stir the embers, making sure the fire’s completely out. “You ready to turn in?”

“I’m exhausted. I need a hot shower before bed. My robe should be dry by now, but I left it and my bathing suit in your room.”

“Well it’s just next door to yours, so I’ll grab those for you when we go up.” He replaces the poker with the rest of the fireplace tools, then turns and stands to his full height.

“And the copy of Jane Eyre,” I say. “The one you got for the library.”

“Exactly.” He bobs his head, reaching out to help me up from the couch. His strong, solid grasp sends a pulse of heat straight up my arm. I stand, and we’re both quiet for a moment. Then he says, “There are clean towels in your room. You can sleep in my sweats if you want.”

Totally normal.

I swallow hard, meeting his gaze. “Thanks for everything today. You really took care of me, bossman.”

He works his jaw back and forth. “It was nothing, hotshot.”

Do you mean it was nothing you wouldn’t do for anyone else?

Or that it was nothing because I’m special to you?

Wanting to be special is a slippery slope. And either way, now is not the time to have this talk. Not when I’m all soup-drunk and drowsy.

Tomorrow, in the light of day, I’ll have a clearer head. Tomorrow I’ll face the fact—yet again—that there’s no future for Hudson and me here … no matter how many Bronte books he reads. No matter how good I feel in his arms.

Together we head up to our rooms, where Hudson returns my bathrobe and bathing suit to me. He also hands over Jane Eyre with its very own bookmark. “I’m going to need that back in the morning,” he says, with an arched brow. “So don’t get too attached.”

And as I shower, change, and slip into bed to read about Jane and Rochester, that mantra plays in my head:

Don’t get too attached.

Don’t get too attached.

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